


There Are No Lies on Your Body

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fix-It, Forgiveness, Godstiel: Cas as God, M/M, Post Season 6, Redemption, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are no lies on your body / So take off your dress / I only want to get at the truth</i> -Meat Loaf</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Lies on Your Body

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/), [](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/profile)[**obstinatrix**](http://obstinatrix.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/) for giving me this bunny to run with, and super mega thanks to [](http://whisperelmwood.livejournal.com/profile)[**whisperelmwood**](http://whisperelmwood.livejournal.com/) and [](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/profile)[**stellamaris99**](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/) for beta'ing it when it's done.

They're driving down 66 a thousand miles from nowhere when something smacks into the car. Dean jams his foot onto the brake; the car screeches forward a few feet and then stops, tires scraping against the worn concrete. They both fight for a minute to control the panicked panting of their breath.

"Goddamn it!" Dean slams his hand on the steering wheel. "Can't see anything in this piece of junk. Did you see what we hit?"

Sam shakes his head. He peers out the window. There's nothing lying in the street, but a trail of blood follows the track of the car's tires. "What in the hell--"

"Shut up." Dean glances sharply at his brother. "You hear that?"

Sam stills. Through the silence comes the hint of a raspy, broken breath just outside of the car's door.

Then a bloody hand plasters itself to the passenger-side window.

Sam jumps; Dean lets a "Holy sh--" rip loose before he has the presence of mind to actually get out of the car and run to the other side. His figure flashes in the headlights as Sam sits frozen, afraid to move, fingers running over the pistol tucked into his jacket.

Dean aims his own gun with one hand and shines a flashlight with the other. In the darkness of the unlit road everything's in stark black-gray-white, and it's only as he approaches that the lump of bright huddled _something_ gains color. It's yellow with streaks of red, a yellow coat -- no, _tan_.

Inside the car, Sam watches Dean's eyes go wide and his jaw drop, and he hears the scream an instant before he drops both gun and flashlight, leaving Sam in darkness.

 _"Cas!"_

* * *

He's heavy. His body is human and hot, near-feverish. When Dean and Sam lift him and shove him feet-first into the back seat, he barely moves. The tatters of his coat, like starched feathers, spill across his form as he groans and breathes with difficulty. His eyes don't open.

"You know this could be a trap," Sam says. "He could be faking this whole thing."

"For what? To get into our car? To get past Bobby's angel-proofing? Sam, he's God. He can do whatever the hell he wants."

"I don't know! And he's not God."

"You saw how well that angel sword worked on him. He's sure as hell not an angel."

"So he's not an angel. But he's not God. You can't just become God. You either are or you aren't."

Dean points a finger and gives Sam his worst big-brother scowl. "Whatever he is, he needs help, and if that's a trap, then just call me trapped, because I'm not leaving him here. Now get in the car."

They slam the back doors on either side of Castiel, slam the front doors as they climb into the front seat. The ride to Bobby's is wordless and tense, broken only by the snort-grumble of Castiel's breathing. Dean thinks of pointing it out, remembering the other time they had Castiel snoring in the backseat, but Sam's face is stony, and Dean doesn't dare. They're both very good at shutting each other out when need be.

When they haul him in, lay him out on the bed to bleed all over the sheets, Bobby immediately goes out to find alcohol on someone else's' property. Dean can't blame him. Bobby cared about the guy, but he wasn't there with him through everything, and he'll never consider Castiel a son the way Dean considered him a brother.

Sam works ardently at bandaging him up. Dean just stands there, fingertip dragging over his bottom lip, shaking his head. "Damn it," he says again, finally. "He looks like..."

"...like he was dragged under a car, I know." Sam sighs. "Good news is, it's mostly cuts and bruises. He'll hurt like hell. If he still _hurts._ "

Dean juts his chin out. "Still think he's faking it?"

"I don't know. It's a long way to go just to get in our good graces, but Dean... you just never know. I know you want to trust him, but--"

"I want to trust him. Doesn't mean I do." Dean leaves it at that. Anything more and he'd have to tell Sam, explain to him how deeply he knows Castiel. How he's seen what's inside him in a way Sam will never understand.

But it gets Dean thinking about it. He flushes, something pinching deep within him, and turns away. Heading toward the window, he reaches his hands out to press flat palms to the glass, relaxing under the coolness. Sam speaks his name, confused. He stands, moves from Castiel's bedside and starts to cross the room.

"Did you have," says a weak voice, "to be going eighty miles an hour? That was a very rough landing."

They whirl in unison to see Castiel gazing at them through narrow slits of eyes, his breath coming in harder, deeper bursts, like he's trying to propel something out of his system. It comes in a gutter-scraping cough - more blood - and Sam and Dean rush to him on reflex before he lifts a hand and says, "I will heal." Then he convulses again, and Dean looks at Sam, his eyes open, blank and hollow with questions.

"I don't know," Sam says. "I don't know what to do. Cas, are you-- is this--"

Castiel's eyes stretch open, his brow folding into deep crinkles to allow them to widen, and he peers up at Sam. "I was attacked," he said. "The souls -- they were stolen from me."

"Stolen?"

His hand grips the mattress, and he forces himself to sit up. Dean rushes to him. "No, no, stay put, don't move, damn it," and there's panic in his voice, but Castiel keeps struggling upright. A stream of blood oozes from an abrasion on his forearm, and it streaks across his wrist to soak the sheet below.

"The angels." He's not looking at Dean as he speaks. "Those who supported me turned on me. Balthazar had told them of the heavenly weapons we'd locked away. Without my knowledge, he had shared the information with my followers. They cast me out of heaven."

"And you just happened to fall right next to our car?" Sam's lips are pursed, his jaw set on edge. Dean can see his arms trembling, see the tension tight through his frame like he's made of thick copper wire, and he worries.

He worries that Sam's been put through too much to give Castiel a fair shake. He worries that Castiel's not telling the truth. And he worries at himself for thinking Castiel's lying and not caring. But Cas is here. Bleeding. Looking human. Looking like the guy Dean knew, the guy Dean wants back.

"I suspect--" Castiel shifts on the bed, groans, and passes a hand over his bandaged forehead. "I suspect that was some last act of kindness on the part of my attackers. Perhaps they knew that without heaven to return to, I would wish to be with the both of you. Unfortunately, you were--" he rubs his scraped elbow ruefully-- "on the move at the time."

"So they threw you under the bus, huh?" Dean thinks he's being clever. Sam shoots him a look. "Heh."

Castiel's eyes break to him -- sharp glints of color, like bright stones, and Dean's taken aback. They soften, dull, and Castiel gives one of his halfway-there, self-deprecating smiles. "That is clever," he says, and with a flutter of lashes his eyes are downturned again.

It was enough. Dean gets the point.

He puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, shuttles him just outside the door. "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think." Sam licks his lips, runs both hands through his hair. "Last time we saw this guy he declared himself God. Now we're supposed to believe he's been overthrown?"

"It's fishy as hell," Dean says. "Look, I think I can pry the truth out of him."

"He'll play you, Dean," Sam warns. "He's done it before, to both of us."

"Sam, I need you to trust me on this," Dean says. "Come on. I was there too, remember? I got screwed over just as badly as you did." Sam glares at him. "OK, not quite as badly. But he--"

Dean reaches out and grasps Sam's forearm. His grip is weak, and his fingers tremble. "--He broke my heart too," Dean says hoarsely. "Like hell I'm gonna let that happen again."

Sam's silent. Behind them, Castiel coughs, then flinches in pain as he shifts on the bed.

"I'll go see if I can find Bobby," Sam says quietly. He pulls his arm away from Dean's grasp and turns, striding down the hall.

Dean waits for the car to start up, waits to see the headlights rise and fall in the windows, before he moves back into Castiel's room. His coughing has died down, and his breathing has eased in the minutes it takes Sam to leave the vicinity. Dean turns, finally, determined to ask the questions that need asking, to not let himself get dragged under again.

Immediately he staggers back and grabs the doorpost. Castiel is standing, serene, at the foot of the bed. Every trace of blood is gone. Even the sheets are pristine.

"What the hell, man?" he manages through a stubbornly shaking jaw.

"I thought it would be easier if you didn't have to clean up," Castiel says. "Blood is difficult to get out of fabric, or so I'm told."

"You liar." Dean's hands clench into fists. "You faked all of that?"

Castiel shakes his head. Something liquid and mournful is swimming in his eyes, a bit of aqua in a sea of stony blue. "I didn't fake any of it," he says. "I just neglected to heal myself until this moment."

"That's faking," Dean says. His lips knot tight, and he paces into the room. "What the hell are you playing at, Cas? I saw that look you gave me. You wanted to talk to me alone, right? Well, here I am. Let's have it."

Castiel's eyes rake over him, top to bottom and back up again, a stare Dean can feel, one that makes him shudder. "What do you want to know?"

"Did you lie to us?"

"Yes." Blinking, calm. Infuriating.

"So you're still snorting soul crack."

"No." Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, the souls are gone. I'm no more powerful than any other angel."

"Wait." Dean stomps in place a moment, like a bull hoofing at the ground. "I'm confused. Let me get this straight. You just told me you lied."

"Not about everything." Castiel steps forward, into the shelter of Dean's space, pushing through the air to lay a hand on Dean's arm. "Dean, if I were to tell you the truth, you would not believe it. This was the only way I could think to gain this time alone with you."

"You're damn straight I wouldn't believe it." Dean cringes at his touch, pulling back and placing a protective hand over the spot, as though the contact had burned him. "Cas, just level with me, OK? What the hell happened, why are you here, what do you want?"

Castiel's eyes burn. His lips draw together and purse, and he takes a breath to speak.

"Say it, Cas!".

Castiel's shaking his head, even as he leans in; in a moment he's captured Dean's mouth with his own, his hand lying hot and strong against Dean's jaw, little finger sliding behind his ear. Dean rears up like a frightened animal; he pulls back, but Castiel's hand is firm as his fingers crook around to the back of Dean's neck. He won't let go, and now his body is molding against Dean's, trying to plaster himself to Dean, pushing and demanding. His proximity dulls Dean's senses. It's like being drunk, but hotter, more demanding, and Dean feels himself stumbling and slowing under the assault. It takes a feat of strength and will to push himself away.

"Damn it, Cas, _no,_ " he gasps, wiping his lips against his sleeve. He curls forward like he's been hit and breathes heavily.

Castiel's face falls. "I'm sorry," he says. "It is too soon."

"Too soon nothing, you don't get to do that!" Dean's livid, his face white with rage. "You don't get to lie to me, to my face, and think you can just... you don't get to lie to me and touch me, Cas. You just don't."

"But Dean." Hands reach for him again, slowly, fearing being slapped back. "This is the only way I know to show you the truth."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dean says, but his voice is weak. The aqua glint in Castiel's eyes is shushing him.

"Dean." Lips close to his, eyes searching his face. Dean searches for even the strength to swallow. "Please. Just look at me."

"I'm--" Dean feels the plump, pursed lips graze his own. "I'm looking--"

Castiel's tongue flickers out and brushes against his. A sick, bittersweet surge of want groans its way through Dean's stomach. His arms tremble as he fights to keep them from rising.

But the touch evaporates, and Dean stands alone again in the circle of his own space. Castiel has stepped back, and he's shaking the tattered coat from his shoulders, fingers working steadily at the knot on his tie. It's an awkward striptease, and there's nothing sexy about it. But Dean's transfixed. He stands numb, his jaw slack, just watching, trying somewhere in the back of his mind to divine the meaning of Castiel's tie falling to the ground, his shirt opening beneath fumbling fingers to slide off and leave Castiel bare-chested. The scar of a binding sigil carved a lifetime ago has returned, its pale pink lines raised in the dim light.

"You still have it," Dean says, and in his own ears his voice sounds dumb, flat, monotonous. "Why did you-- you could have healed that. You _had_ healed that. Didn't you? I thought--"

He closes his eyes, tries to remember that last desperate scramble of fingers and lips, Castiel delving into him, carving into him signs in a language far more mysterious and ancient than any script used to banish an angel.

He'd understood that language perfectly, at the time, despite the misunderstandings and mistrust that still lingered between them -- what had happened in their bodies, in the warmth they built up together, was sincere, was truth. Dean has forgotten how to trust Castiel with words -- he's learned to shut his ears to Castiel's speech, to expect lies. But the aching warmth through his body hasn't learned, and his eyes can only see truth in the solid swells of muscle and tender lines of scars.

Maybe that's what Cas means. Maybe Dean will only understand if the truth isn't in words.

Dean reaches out. His hand brushes Castiel's, a simple point of contact. It lingers for a moment before Dean walks forward blindly, extends his other arm, finding a sudden solid grasp at Castiel's waist. Muscle is there, but not the swollen steroid pride of an angel juiced up on living reactors. Instead, Castiel's gaunt and sinewy, as he was once. It's as though his body has gone back in time.

"What happened to you, Cas?" he murmurs, barely loud enough to hear the words ring in his own ears. Another breath, another step and his face is close enough to feel the gentle buffet of Castiel's breath, benign, again, not charged with souls. There was a chemical difference to his presence when he stood before them proclaiming himself the new god. Dean had felt it, his cells had known it in a low, horrified, visceral shudder that resonated far deeper than his shell-shocked brain could process. It's gone now. This is Castiel as Dean remembers him best.

"They're gone," he says. "They're really gone."

"Yes." Castiel's voice is barely a breath beneath his.

Relief floods through Dean, and the iron rod of tension through his spine and shoulders that's been holding him up abruptly dissolves. His forehead drops to Castiel's shoulder, his hands slide to the small of Castiel's bare back, and he whispers, "You're Cas. You're _you._ "

"Yes," Castiel says again, and Dean can hear the tears in his voice. Trembling fingers touch the base of his scalp, thread up through his hair, Deans heart is beating through his ribs into Castiel's chest. He swallows hard, his throat working tight against Castiel's shoulder, every movement of his body pressed into Castiel's skin. His eyes are shut tight to better feel its impression.

His body is leaden, his arms heavier than they've ever felt, and it hurts to disengage. But Dean moves back nonetheless, holds Cas' hands in his and looks him in the eye. "You know we're not going to help you get them back," he says. "You know we'll do everything we can to stop you getting them back."

"Dean, I don't want them back."

Dean bristles. "What do you mean, you were so gung-ho about--"

"They are safer where they are. In the hands of a thousand angels they will be sufficiently diffuse." Castiel raises his hands from Dean's to his face. "All I want-- all I need right now-- is for you to understand."

Castiel's gaze has not left Dean's face, and his eyes are still that solid-liquid mass of dead stone and aqua glints of life. Dean runs his hand up to Castiel's chest, finds the web of scars, and traces them slowly, one by one, with a single finger. "I don't get it," he says.

Castiel doesn't answer. He only cranes his neck further, tips his head back.

Dean touches his cheek. Castiel's face is sallow, sunken in, with the ravages of exhaustion and time, of strength lost. Dean's lips are full of questions, but he can't ask them; a block has crept into his throat. Instead, he trembles and pushes them forward onto Castiel's lips, a kiss full of uncertainty, but Castiel's mouth doesn't lie. It opens, as his body opens, invites Dean to delve inside, to retrieve what answers he can.

It shoots through Dean in a series of images and reflected emotions, like headlights flashing by in white-red bursts along a dark highway. Grief, reflection, worry. A sense that for this new thing to be gained, something precious has been lost. A trip through time, revisiting old spots along the highway of memory, listening carefully to old words and hearing new meanings. The warm push of Castiel's tongue against his is telling him more than it did in speech. Dean can feel Castiel's emotions, past and present. Realization, depression, determination, love.

His body has shrunk, the power within it has dissipated; the love is all that has grown.

He pushes back, holding Castiel at arm's length. The realization is shining in his eyes.

"You gave them up?" he breathes.

Castiel looks at him, still says nothing.

"You weren't attacked." The words are grating as they slip past his throat.."The angels didn't take the souls from you. You gave them away."

A long breath shudders its way from Castiel's mouth, and he takes another. "Yes, Dean," he says. "I gave them away."

"Wait." Dean draws back a pace, his barriers rising again fast. "You were all greater-good and I'm-gonna-be-a-better-God, and then you just gave it all up? How the hell does that work? And why the hell make up a fish story about getting attacked? So we'd feel sorry for you?"

"If I had told you the truth," Castiel says, "would you have believed me?"

Dean's mouth and brain halt in place.

Castiel pulls Dean's hand from his face, passes gentle fingers over his palm. Shirtless, thin and pale in the dim room, he trembles lightly as he speaks. "I have tried explaining things to you before," he says. "I am not good with words you can understand, Dean. This is the only way I know."

He undoes his belt. His pants slide to the ground, and he leans down to slide out of his shoes and socks. He stands up then, naked, waiting before Dean as though for judgment. It's the strangest sort of moment -- Dean would laugh, if it were anyone but this person, any time but this time.

Instead, he falters, moves forward blindly, like a ghost sliding across a floor it cannot feel. His lips claim Castiel's, and he draws from him all the truth he can take, all the memories and the explanation Castiel will give to him. The loneliness comes through strongest, palpable and sour, coloring everything in a wash of burgundy pain that makes each step, each moment, harder to bear. This is what it was like to be God. Sick with power, sick with loss. Dean's heart lurches, and he pulls Castiel in with anxious hands, eager to give comfort, reassurance.

He shouldn't trust the images, shouldn't believe what he sees through borrowed eyes and feels through the narration of Castiel's heart. He should demand more explanation. But Castiel's open around him, taking nothing, giving him all the freedom in the world, skin soft and inviting beneath his. His tongue does not lick back when Dean enters his mouth; it strokes, it guides, but it never fights or curls around as though to take control. Dean is free to do what he wants here, with Castiel's willing body, and in the freedom there is such generosity that Dean can't find it in his heart, or his will, to refuse it.

And Dean misses him too much, has been too lonely for this honest contact of body to body, the kind that sealed them together once, made it seem possible that someday they'd understand each other again. Dean's always listened to his hunger, and he does not swerve from that impulse now -- his hand curls under he bare curve of Castiel's rear, molds their bodies together, and he kisses hard, sucking on Castiel's lips, drinking in the togetherness he's craved for so long. A growl escapes his throat, and it rolls into Castiel's mouth without the benefit of air between them. Vibrations borrowed and returned again, and the feeling is so rich and layered and good that Dean groans again in answer to himself. He pushes Castiel backward toward the bed, and Castiel goes, lifting one knee onto the mattress and then the other, then holding out his hands to invite Dean in.

But he doesn't lie down, he just kneels there, palms spread, face upturned. Trembling minutely, calmly. A question awaiting an answer. No, Dean corrects himself, Castiel's body isn't a question. It's an offering. Castiel has delivered himself into Dean's hands and is awaiting judgment.

Dean's hunger boils over, and he mouths over Castiel's jaw, grazing teeth against stubble, sharp on sharp. Castiel gives a soft sound, a not-quite-moan, and Dean sucks harder, finding Castiel's earlobe and sucking it in. A moan breaks, now full-throated, from Castiel's lips and he clutches Dean by the sleeves of his shirt. Still not pulling them off, but clinging on, nonetheless, as though afraid of falling.

It's not until Dean skims his hands forward across Castiel's thighs, slides quick palms upward across stomach and chest, that Castiel speaks. The word that slips out, thin and frightened, is "Please."

A god does not plead.

Dean kisses his shoulder. His skin smells fresh and clean. "It's OK, Cas," he murmurs into the softness of it. "It's OK."

He pauses, listening to the rise and fall of Castiel's breathing, the tiny shudder in every exhale. Castiel's trembling feels like held-back tears.

And all at once it doesn't matter what he went through, how he came to this decision. Dean could guess, but it hardly matters. The point is that Cas is the guy Dean always knew he was, the guy who sees right in the end, the guy who sacrifices to do the right thing. And he's here, doing the right thing. Atoning. Asking for Dean's forgiveness.

"Just," he murmurs. "Just tell me you're sorry."

Castiel tenses. For a moment Dean thinks everything's gone to hell again.

"I was right," Castiel says, "to do what I did." Panic is a sick, blue bolt through Dean's stomach. It lasts far too long as Castiel takes his next breath. "But you, too, were right. I didn't need -- I shouldn't have kept them afterward. And for not listening to you... I'm sorry."

Dean's eyes shut tight. He pushes himself hard against Castiel's body, trying to bury himself there. He's too proud to say the words he needs to say, but then again, so is Castiel, and he said them.

"We're never gonna agree on what you did," he whispers. "Not after the people we lost, the people you let die."

Castiel's cheek is wet, a single tear. It slides into the hollow behind Dean's temple. "I know."

"But--"

Dean makes his way up to face Castiel. His palms settle against Castiel's cheek, fingertips chasing away the streaks of the tear.

"But God help me, Cas, I get it. And I...." He needs another breath. "I'm not sorry for trying to stop you; but for pushing you away, for making you think you couldn't come to me... yeah, I'm--"

Castiel kisses him. Human, sudden, hot, a clash of skin on kiss-swollen, red skin. Push and release.

"Dean," he says, and again, he opens his arms.

Dean slides a hand behind his head, lays him down, and hovers over him, too close for their eyes to meet, just feeling the presence beneath him, the yearning radiating up toward him. Love swells up overwhelmingly in his heart, and he runs his hands reverently over Castiel's body, blessing him, anointing him with the gift of forgiveness, of being human again.

He kisses down Castiel's neck to his chest, a straight unswerving line along his sternum, and pauses just below Castiel's navel to feel the familiar heat of his cock, hard and curved beneath Dean's throat.

Now Castiel dares to beg, pushing upward against the weight of Dean's hands. Dean inhales. He runs his tongue just once over the crown of Castiel's erection, then once up the shaft, and Castiel wrenches and jerks beneath him. He cries out in a voice almost too high to be his, and his whole body arches, his chin jutting upward toward the ceiling and his hips rising off the bed, pleading, throwing himself toward heaven.

Dean finds his fingertips, grazes his teeth along their softness. He kisses his way up Castiel's right arm, to the ball of his shoulder, and then guides it upward, body shifting over Castiel's, helping him to turn onto his side on the bed. His own cock, still trapped beneath his jeans, pushes boldly against Castiel's hip, and Castiel gasps and thrusts himself into it. Dean groans, can't help himself from leaning into the sudden friction, but he completes the turn, pushing Castiel down, stomach first, onto the bed.

He pauses now to shed his own shirt, then rubs himself enticingly down the length of Castiel's back. His lips drag, his tongue circles and laps and points, and everything smells like Cas, like something that's fallen from heaven and is entirely his. Dean loves everything he is touching and seeing, everything his mouth claims and everything his fingers brush and his cock rides against. He's never wanted so much in his life both to own and to belong to the same thing.

His tongue pauses at the bump of Castiel's tailbone and whirls there.

Castiel ruts into the bed deliriously. "Yes, Dean." He answers the question that's not asked aloud. "Yes."

Dean licks his lips. His mouth moves ardently, hungrily, down along the fleshy curve of Castiel's ass, gliding gently across the sharp jut of his hipbones first, painting kisses like flourishes on either side. He's strangely eager, ravenous for this, and it's not just because he's felt it, not just because he knows what it's like to be devoured so completely. This is Castiel's offering, and Dean's so touched by it, so empowered by the fact that Castiel has come down from godhood for this, has prostrated himself before Dean in a bid for forgiveness and acceptance. Castiel's offering himself up to be consumed, and Dean not only couldn't think of refusing that offer, he's anxious to accept it. He needs Cas back in his good graces, back in his heart and life, just as much as Castiel needs to be accepted.

Those emotions power his mouth as it moves, sliding down into slick, sweaty crevices and fighting its way deeper. It puts power into his hands as they shove Castiel's cheeks apart, uncover his hole, clean and pulsing slightly with the excitement and the movement of Castiel's hips, urging it backward. He's begging without words, pleading for Dean to take him, all of him, and Dean flattens himself against Castiel's thighs and does as he's being asked.

Castiel lets out a delirious groan of want at the first lick. His hips pulse back, like they're on a motor. It's almost impossible to keep him open, but Dean holds fast, wiping his tongue over and over like he's salving a wound. Each time, the cry that escapes Castiel goes higher in pitch, louder, more intense. "Dean, Dean, _please_ " he babbles and then, inexplicably, "Oh, _God_...." and if that's not proof Castiel's no longer a god, then nothing is.

He licks in. Castiel takes a breath and forgets to let it out.

Dean stabs in again, blindly, too hard, his brain not processing what his tongue is tasting - something tangy and dark, something wrong and delicious, but he can't and he won't put a name to it. He does understand what he's feeling, though - heat, unbearable tightness, like a vacuum seal around his tongue, so unrelenting, so desperate. Castiel's hips hitch back, he cries out, and he's swallowing Dean's tongue, burying him deeper and deeper without Dean even having to move. Dean opens his mouth wide, clamps his lips over the rim of Castiel's hole, and kisses as fervently as though it were a mouth he was pressed against. His tongue finds some room and circles, licks, thrusts in, and now Castiel's hips are riding against his face, and he's eating Castiel out like crazy, just burying himself there, completely involved and invested in him. The two of them are locked together and moving in a rhythm like the furious chug of a freight train. They're both making noise, Dean's groans muffled inside Castiel, the angel's cries unrestrained in the small, dark room.

When he eases off, it's only because he's so hard now he's about to tear right through his jeans, denim, zipper and all.

Castiel gasps, humps the bed again frantically, and begs for Dean to hurry. The belt around his waist has never been so cumbersome, and Dean's cursing as he fiddles with it, flailing uselessly on the bed as he kicks his jeans off. Castiel looks over his shoulder, bright blue eyes now all liquid and alive. The stone is gone, the fear is gone, and he's put himself in Dean's hands, awaiting Dean's acceptance of his sacrifice.

Dean places a hand on the small of his back, leans over, and catches his lips in a promise of a kiss.

"Turn over," he says.

Castiel hesitates. "I don't--"

"Yeah, you do." Dean runs a hand through the sweat-matted ruffle of Castiel's hair. "Cas."

The words he's not saying hang in the air as loud and clear as the blast of a horn.

Castiel scrambles onto his back, places his hands on Dean's shoulders, and pulls him down. They kiss for a long, long time before Dean even remembers there's more to be done than that; the whole world narrows to them looking at each other, to the soft intakes of breath and lips caressing skin. Their bodies are glowing, heat transmuted into warmth for just one moment while Castiel understands what Dean's telling him.

His hips tip up. Dean slides in. It's a moment of effortless completion, their eyes wide-open and round, their breath stopped. They've got so much to work out, so much to apologize for, but beneath all of that, there was always this, the two of them together. It's a foundation far more solid than any lies or houses of cards they could ever layer on top of it. There is nothing truer in the world than what's happening right here.

Dean dissolves into heat, groaning as he bears down on Castiel's body, knees bending to rock him forward. The slap of his stomach against Castiel's cock is obscene and joyful, and he leans back and forward to repeat it, grin breaking against Castiel's pursed lips. Castiel massages a gentle line down his spine, urges him in deeper with one flat-palmed hand. When Dean grunts "S'good" against his mouth, Castiel just nods, eyes shut tight, and gasps for air.

They're in sync the whole way, rasps of breath accelerating at the same clip, fingers tightening on each other's skin with the same fierce intensity. They're equals the whole way up to the peak, and when they're on the edge of it, their fingers have found each other and interlaced, and Dean's rocking into Castiel seamlessly, his body a perfect arc of movement and Castiel's its perfect counterweight. They press into each other, groan, press back out and sigh, every time a little deeper, every time a little harder until they're gasping, hard, hands squeezing, Castiel's legs clamping around Dean's waist, sweat sticking them together from chest to groin. Dean shouts. Castiel utters Dean's name. They're hanging off a cliff, so close to forever, and then they're gone.

It's a full minute before Dean lifts his head from Castiel's shoulder. He's still trying to calm his breathing, taking long gasps. He's coated in sweat; sticky and a little chilly, goosebumps prickling his arms where the faulty air conditioning blows a breeze against his skin. Wiping the perspiration from his eyes, he looks down at Castiel and sees answering prickles on his skin.

"Angels don't get cold," he points out.

Castiel smirks. "And Dean Winchester doesn't fall in love."

Dean brushes a trickle of sweat from Castiel's brow. He laughs, a throaty, hoarse sound that's full of heart. "Guess we both gotta admit we were wrong?"

Lips purse upward, and Dean catches them, a soft pressed kiss that lingers almost like something sad. The melancholy surprises Dean, and he pulls up, stares blankly down at suddenly mournful blue eyes.

"Sam will be home soon," Castiel says by way of explanation.

"Oh." Dean rolls away, lies on his stomach beside Castiel on the small bed, one finger stroking his arm lazily. "He's gonna be angry," he says. "He's not going to believe you."

"I know." Castiel turns his head. "Nor will he believe you, if you are the one to tell him."

"So what do we do?"

Castiel frowns. "You told Sam once, that having a soul meant suffering."

Irritation flashes across Dean's features. "What does that mean? We should just suffer?"

"I think that I am the one who has to suffer," Castiel says. His voice is low and dark, but there's some measure of hope in his eyes. "I want to stay here, and face him, and Bobby. They are angry at me, and I should hear out their grievances."

"It's gonna be bad," Dean says, lifting Cas' hand to his mouth and kissing his knuckles briefly before sitting up and reaching for his shirt. "You really screwed us over. And frankly, Cas? You deserve it."

"I know." Castiel gets up and stands, again naked and exposed in the small room. "But I still want to stay." He waits a beat. "Can I stay?"

Dean's gaze is so level and lingers so long on him, that Castiel starts to sweat.

"I wouldn't try to convince him the same way you convinced me," Dean says, waving a hand at Castiel's body. "But yeah, of course you can stay."

Castiel smiles, then looks down at himself and reddens. "Thank you."

He fumbles for his clothes as headlights light up the windows in the hallway outside. Dean slides on his own jeans again and sits on the bed. "Look, for what it's worth," he says, "you've got me."  
Castiel nods. His eyes are sober. "I know."

"But you know what's more important?" Dean slides the tie around Castiel's neck. "You're telling the truth. You can't screw that up. As much as it sucks, don't let go of that, OK? No more lies."

"I agree."

Abruptly, Dean slaps him on the side of the head. "You could have done better than lying to us the minute you came back, you know."

"I'm sorry." Castiel's eyes dart to the side as he hears the door open downstairs. "I could think of no other way--"

Dean places a kiss on his nose. It's such an odd movement, so sudden, that Castiel gives a soft, involuntary noise, and Dean himself flushes with embarrassment.

"Enough," he says. "You don't have to explain anything more to me."

To Sam, he will. To Bobby, too. But Castiel has Dean's forgiveness. It's a first step, and if it ends eventually in resolution, Dean is happy to give it. And he sees, from the relief in Castiel's eyes, how badly it was needed.

They hear Sam and Bobby's footsteps approaching. Dean takes a breath to speak, as though worried, ready to give some final bit of advice or encouragement. But Castiel shakes his head, stopping his tongue. Dean doesn't have to explain anything else to him, either.

So Dean nods and smiles. Castiel squeezes Dean's hand briefly, smiles back, and takes his next step forward.


End file.
